


The Last Werewolf

by dangermouses



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-09-11
Updated: 2012-09-11
Packaged: 2017-11-14 00:54:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/509595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dangermouses/pseuds/dangermouses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It started with this tumblr post - saucefactory.tumblr.com/post/27985256177 - and just escalated.<br/>Gifted to Saucery because if I ever end up finishing it, it will be because of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Last Werewolf

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Saucery](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saucery/gifts).



The wolf lived in a lilac wood, and he lived alone.

He was very old, though he didn't really notice of acknowledge time as it passed. His coat was no longer the sleek black of night, but was streaked in the many greys of moonlight and shadow. The hairs around his muzzle and scattered through his ruff were almost pure silver, catching the light like the glint of metal in the midst of smoke. But his eyes were the clear green of new grass, and he moved like wind through the trees.

He did not look like an ordinary wolf; larger and with longer limbs, more fox-like in his rangy proportions but with the heavy muscle of a hunting thing. His eyes showed the wild intelligence that wolves never possessed, that coyote and jackals only imitated with laughing grins. His thick mane rivalled a lion's, his tail held like a pennant to fly behind him. Large paws were silent across the forest floor, and wide ears pivoted to hear even the slightest sound. His jaw held wicked-sharp fangs, curved and stark white against the red of his mouth, the pink loll of his tongue.

It was a safe place, his forest; the growls and howls of such an old and lonesome creature had long since chased away the last remnants of man. Legends of a wild thing, bigger than a horse and with teeth like knives, kept them at bay; the hunters, the lords and ladies, the travellers and woodsmen. The last time a human had set foot beneath the shade of the trees, she had brought blood, and blood he had returned. Many times over.

He had not always lived alone; his pack was buried in the clearing by the lake, where the moon’s light could reflect over them, to protect them. The wolf never ventured to that part of the wood, wary of the poison that had sprung up over their graves, the very manifestation of his guilt. When he thought of it, the forest echoed with his terrible howling; all the animals would hide, taking to their nests and dens and sets, rather than listen to such a broken sound.

It was the smallest of things, in the end, that made him leave.

A butterfly, excitable and bright, was blown into his wood on the summer winds; she smelt of foreign air and pollen dust from strange flowers, and something else. Something like gold and chocolate, threaded through those other scents. It was like home, like running through the trees under the moon, like the warmth breath of his mother. It was not wolf, but something close - like the human pack members who had ridden with them as they roamed the wilds, when the world was bigger and the woods far wider.

The wolf leapt at the fluttering insect, snarling impatience and confusion, and snapping his wide jaw over emptied air. He needed to know where the butterfly had been, if she knew what he was, if there were others. Others, pack - maybe even mate.

The butterfly danced on the breeze, beating that infuriating scent into the air; singing and reciting what fragments of information she had picked up in her short life. She fluttered down from between branches and leaves, settling on the tip of his left ear like a dry petal onto grey water. Her wings opened and closed like blinking lashes, and her voice was a haughty thing, musical and bold.

"Pi is defined to be the ratio of the circumference of any circle divided by its diameter. O mistress mine, where are you roaming? O stay and hear- have you heard?" 

The wolf flicked his ear, but the little thing held on and flattened her wings down against the delicate fur as though clinging with her entire body. He growled, wary of her tenacity, "Heard what? Old riddles and pointless poetry? Go away, bug, or you'll die in the cold." 

"Cold, cold, cold hands and warm heart." Her voice whispered direct into his ear, quiet and small even as close as she was. "Absence makes the heart grow fonder. Myogenic muscular organ found in all animals with a circulatory system. The size of a fist, but much more painful. Have you heard? Listen!" 

The wolf growled again; the first words he spoke in too many years and they were spoken to chase off an insect, who refused to leave. It was irritating, it was infuriating - but when he twisted his great head to snap at her, she simply lighted on his snout, unafraid. It was, he admitted in the quietest corner of his mind, almost impressive. 

"Listen to what?" 

"The lone wolf is but a romantic ideal; in reality, lone wolves die and they die alone." She shuddered in the slightly breeze, pressing down close to the warmth of his skin. "Looks liek a fox but smells like a wolf. 42 teeth in total, the same number as the domestic dog. My, what a big mouth you have. All the better to eat you with, my dear." 

The wolf shook his head, sending the butterfly spiraling out into th air in front of him, but still she fluttered back against his face, demanding his attention. 

"I know your name! A rose by any other name would have as fierce a thorn!" 

"If you know my name, if you know me, then tell me where you've been. If you've seen others like me, other wolves. Tell me that!" 

East of the Sun and West of the Moon! Through the Valley of the Shadow of Death, once more unto the breach." The wolf began to turn away, losing his patience with the insect's recitations; they never had a thought in their heads that someone else didn't have first. Still the tiny creature batted and flitted about his ears, her voice turning soft and strange. "No, but listen! Don't listen to me, listen? Can you hear? You can find your packmates if you are brave. They ran, through the woods of the worlds a long time ago, and the silver stag ran close behind them and covered their scent." 

The wolf stopped, tilting it's head up to watch the twitch of wings. "Stags don't chase wolves, bug." 

She started to sing, "Early one morning just as the sun was rising, I heard-" More frantic fluttering, shaking away the song and continuing in that strangely hushed voice, "Heard, heard, have you heard? Cervus ad sagittam properat, but not him, no, not him. Listen, listen quickly!" 

"I am listening! Are there other wolves, and where? And what stag?" 

She lighted on his ear once more, whispering almost too soft to hear, "Have you heard, Mister Wolf? Have your heard the howling?" 

The butterfly said nothing more of value, speaking in riddles and formulae, but each flap of her amber wings filled his nose with that scent, and the wolf knew he would have to find it. He walked the woods for a few days, wary about leaving his solitude that had kept him safe for so many years, leaving his pack in their purple-trimmed arbour - but now the thought of leaving was in his head, he found no respite.

With a last look at the sanguine moon, heavy over the forest, he took off; he did not hesitate as he crossed the edge, his paws feeling the cold grassy earth turn to packed dirt and the road of man. Without him the forest would be unprotected, his territory unguarded, but he had to go. So he would go quickly, and return as soon as he could.

He would not look back, he would not question a choice once he had made it; instead he turned his nose into the wind, and ran on.


End file.
